What is owed, and to whom

Dining out is a give and take relationship. We, as the diners, expect certain behaviors from all levels of the establishment we patronize; and, in return, they expect our return custom, our word of mouth referrals to our acquaintances, and payment for the meal.

And yes, call me old-fashioned, but tipping is--and should remain--optional.

I've worked as a table busser, a dishwasher, a host, a waiter, and a line cook, and they all have their ups and downs. Each plays upon the other's strengths, and balances the weaknesses. For example, a dishwasher setting out a tray of unwashed plates can be counteracted by a sharp-eyed line chef sliding them aside and grabbing clean ones. As well, the disquiet noted when a busser forgets to crumb a table can be offset by the host addressing the issue before seating the patron. All things being equal, though, whether discussing a chain or a sole proprietorship, a restaurant is known for two things: the quality of its food and its wait staff.

I am willing to accept a reasonable delay for a good meal. If my server checks in with me at reasonable intervals to advise me that my dish is being prepared, or to ask if I need more wine or bread, I'll happily chat with my friends or read a book whilst waiting. And, if the food is not cooked to my liking when I receive it, I have no qualms about politely requesting that it be returned to the kitchen for further preparation.

I like my steaks blue-rare, and I will return them if they're served medium-well. I prefer my eggs over medium, and I loathe receiving them over easy. And, in most instances, the wait staff is perfectly ready to address my concerns.

But in some cases, I'm torn. There are some establishments I patronize where one or two servers always leave me frustrated. The food is exceptionally good, but I inevitably wind up either leaving unsatisfied or requesting to be seated in a different waitperson's section. Then, too, no matter how good the wait staff, if the food is not up to my standards, I don't patronize the establishment.

If we are patrons, then it is our right to expect professional service and good food; and, if we are working in the service sector, it is our responsibility to provide both items. Conversely, if we are in the service sector, it is our right to expect customers to treat us professionally and to pay us what we are owed, and it is our responsibility as patrons to meet both of those expectations.

The service industry thrives on the social dynamic, and nowhere is this more obvious than when dining out.

So returning to my point about tipping above, if your server does a reasonable job, provide them with a reasonable tip. If they are oustanding in their interaction, show your appreciation in a tangible manner. And, if their performance is execrable, speak to their manager.

Dining out is a give and take relationship, and both parties need to work to keep that relationship healthy.

An Oregonian, and an American gastronomic legend

James Beard is recognized--and rightly so--as one of the greatest influences on the culinary habits of the United States. Hailed as the father of American gastronomy, he left a legacy as rich as his cooking.

One of his best-known works, Beard on Food, has been re-released. First published in 1974, it has been dusted off and given a new jacket for 2007, but its recipes and lessons are as timelessly perfect today as when they were first penned.

I grew up reading his books, and hoping beyond hope that--one day, somehow--I'd have the opportunity to learn from him. Alas, he died the year I left home for college, but he still teaches through his books, and through the skills he imparted to others.

And there's one other element I love about him: he grew up in Portland, Oregon, and many of his recipes and reminiscences hearken back to his time here.

If you purchase one book on the art of cooking this year, make it Beard on Food. Your hearth, and your heart, will thank you for it.

Haute wings

While I enjoy chicken wings, I don't always want to head out of the house and toddle down to the nearest sports bar to feed my hunger. Luckily, relief is just a kitchen away.

• Separate one to two pounds of chicken wings into their three constituent components (mini-drumstick, mini-thigh, and 'what in the dickens do I do with this fiddly bit?'): feel free to reserve the tips for stock by freezing them.
• Place the remaining pieces into a mixing bowl, then make a marinade of one lime's worth of juice, four cilantro leaves chopped fine, a pinch of salt, and a splash of dry sherry. Gently toss the chicken in this marinade, then let sit--covered, in the refrigerator--for at least one hour, turning occasionally to ensure the chicken is coated evenly.
• Place two to three tablespoons of olive oil into a small stock pot and place on a burner set to medium heat. Once the oil is hot, remove the chicken from the marinade and place into the pot, turning regularly, and cook until the chicken is done through.
• While the chicken is cooking, mix 1/3 cup soy sauce, 1/3 cup dry sherry, two tablespoons casters sugar, 1/2 teaspoon grated ginger, and two tablespoons tomato paste.
• Remove the chicken from the pot, remove the oil from the pot (wipe up any excess), and return the wings to the pot.
• Once the chicken is back in the pot, pour the sauce over the wings. Cover and simmer on medium-low for fifteen to thirty minutes, stirring and turning occasionally.
• Remove the pot from the heat, and place the wings on a wire rack over paper toweling to drain a bit.

While the wings are delicious warm with bleu cheese dressing, they're also excellent cold, especially if the meat is used as part of a salad.

Peter Piper only picked them

I enjoy making salsas and pepper-rich dishes, but I don't always like the biting heat some peppers provide. In order to keep the robust flavor of the pepper while moderating the heat, I roast and skin the peppers; then, depending upon the recipe, I de-seed and/or de-vein the pepper before using it.

• Take whole peppers (Chipotle, Banana, Jalapeño, or what have you) and place them on a wire grill rack over a barbeque grill, gas flame, or electric barbeque. If you do not have any of those available, you can pan-blacken them in a nonstick or cast-iron skillet, or you can place them on a baking tray under the broiler in your oven.
• Turn the peppers frequently and watch the roasting process carefully: you want them hot through, with their skins crisping and blistering away from the flesh beneath, but you don't want to burn the actual flesh of the peppers.
• Now remove the peppers from the heat and place them in a sealed plastic bowl or inside a lined paper bag and let them cool for approximately twenty minutes.
• Wearing gloves (latex or latex-free), strip the skin from the flesh of the pepper. The gloves protect your hands from volatile oils, and they facilitate the removal of the pepper skins.

Simple, yes?

If you want to retain the heat in the pepper, remove only the stem. To moderate the heat, open the pepper and remove the seeds, leaving the veins. To remove almost all of the heat, and bring the pepper down to a subtle, smoky sweetness, remove both the seeds and the veins from the pepper.

I am not Robert Parker

Even though I'm not paid to rate wines, and even though I know I have much more to learn about my favorite tipple, I am still able to call myself an oenophile: I appreciate wine for its simplicity of presentation, its complexity in aroma and taste, its beauty, and its approachability.

While it's impossible to tell the exact year wine production first began, it's reasonable to say that it was approximately 8,000 years ago, give or take a few centuries. According to Archaeo News, drawing on information published in The Independent in 2003, "New discoveries show how Neolithic man was busy making red wine in Shulaveri (Georgia, the former Soviet republic). Although no liquid wine from the period has survived, scientists have now found and tested wine residues discovered on the inner surfaces of 8,000-year-old ceramic storage jars."

Trust me: if we're still trying to perfect wine production after 8,000 years, it's perfectly acceptable for both you and me to be somewhat unsure of what we like to drink, and why we like to drink it.

I'll admit it: I'm a red wine person myself. I've found very few whites that suit me. One of my closest friends, however, prefers whites, and finds almost all reds to be both too astringent and too robust. Every person will have their own tastes, their own preferences, and nobody is wrong.

Do not ever--ever--let someone tell you that your choice is absolutely incorrect.

If you're in a restaurant and you wish to order a Pinot Gris to go with your pot roast, do so. If you want to order a Shiraz with your fish and chips, feel free. And if you want to order Sauternes with your onion rings, knock yourself out. If that's what you want, if that's what you like, then go for it.

Now, there's a caveat to that: don't stick with what you've had in the past simply because you're afraid to try something else.

You may have a friend who loves reds, and you don't want to disappoint them: don't let that be your guide. By the same token, you may have a friend who hates reds, and has told you how horrid they are: don't let that frighten you off.

It's my belief that you should try a little of everything, and find out what you like. All of the critics in the world--whether they're using a 20-point system from France or a 100-point system in the United States--can only tell you what they like.

Go to wine tastings, visit vineyards, pick up some books or magazines on wine, browse the web, or ask your Sommelier or server what s/he would recommend with your meal.

Many people think nothing of going to a tavern and trying a flight of beers to find the general type they like the best (for me, it's stouts and porters, and that may tie in with why I prefer the punch of red wines), but they're afraid of being seen as "hoity-toity" if they do the same with a wine flight at their local wine store.

Don't be afraid, don't be off-put, and above all, don't be intimidated: wine is nothing more than grape juice with attitude.

Speaking of what you shouldn't do, you shouldn't let yourself be confused over the rather frequent divide between what you smell and what you taste.

I can tell you that a noteworthy Sauvignon Blanc has a nose redolent with a musk that's both sharp and acrid, and a subtle blend of dusty herbs, sunlight on shag carpet, green peppers, asparagus, and slightly soured beans. You might sniff the same glass, recoil, and say that it stinks of an athlete's armpits and cat urine. We'd both be noticing the same things: we're experiencing the distinctive characteristics of a particular grape, winery, method of production, and finished product for a given year.

Incidentally, that particular Sauvignon Blanc may be one of the best tasting wines you've ever had in your life; however, until you try it, you'll never know.

And don't let wine terminology confuse you: you need to know hardly any of it to appreciate wine. If you do opt to learn it, you'll be able to read a series of reviews and envision how a given wine will taste, but that's still not the same as tasting it for yourself.

I'll admit it: it's nice to be able to say that the 2006 Calina Cabernet Sauvignon from Chile pours like dusty garnets, has an old ruby meniscus, is eminently approachable in its youth, is comfortably able to be cellared for another five years, is fairly leggy, has a nose reminiscent of cold October nights and sweet graveyard dirt, is chewy with tannins, is reasonably astringent, has an acceptably long and complex finish without dissolving into acidity, and carries hints of pear, cheddar, and chocolate.

You know what else is nice, though? Being able to walk into a store, pick up a bottle of a wine I like and say, "This is drinkable."

At the end of the day, both phrases mean the same thing.

Conventions

There's something you need to know about me: I'm a heathen when it comes to food preparation and dinner parties.

• I don't chifonnade, and I hardly ever julienne, but I do like to make sure my herbs are sliced into ribbon-thin strips, and that my vegetables are cut into matchstick-sized pieces.
• I don't brunoise leeks, but I have been known to finely dice them.
• While I could set up a fairly complete mise en place for each meal I'm preparing, I prefer to get out what I need before I start cooking, then put it away when I'm done.
• I don't always prepare elaborate Hors d'ouvres to serve to my guests before we sit to supper; instead, I set out a few simple appetizers, and we amuse ourselves with light-hearted, and hopefully witty, badinage.
• While I know how to set a formal table, I usually lay out only what the meal will require.

Here's the point: while I know how to prepare, plate, and present just about anything, I'd prefer to focus on my guests, and not on making sure they know the correct technical term for each step of the preparation, or that they're using the correct utensil for each course. If we're in the kitchen together and someone truly wishes to help, I don't want to explain the difference between coarse and fine chop, dicing, mincing, and julienning: I'd rather hand them a knife and say, "see how those carrots are cut? Do that to the zucchini."

And when it comes to serving and eating, while I enjoy setting out grilled Tilapia on bone china with linen serviettes at every place, I also enjoy sitting down at a friend's house to barbequed beef ribs on plastic plates, especially when they're providing a huge pile of paper napkins and handy wipes to clean off fingers and chins.

When all is said and done, food is about life, life is about laughter, and laughter is a part of love. Concern yourself more with making sure that you and your guests are comfortable.

The rules of social etiquette can be learned as you go, but your guests are more likely to remember that they shared a pleasant time at your home than they are to remember that you served an Oregon Pinot in glasses meant for a California Cabernet Sauvignon.

Warm Pasta Salad

I had always enjoyed my mother's summery macaroni salad--heavy with cheese and slices of hard-boiled egg, swimming in a sea of mayonnaise and thick yellow mustard--but I wanted something lighter and more refined for my table, so I started experimenting.

I found that this recipe works quite well served warm and paired with a gamier meat such as duck, and is delicious cold when paired with a slice of pork loin.

• one quarter of a red onion, approximately one-eighth cup, coarsely chopped
• six to eight cloves of garlic, depending on their size, finely minced
• one-quarter cup mayonnaise
• one-half teaspoon mustard powder
• one teaspoon grated horseradish
• eight ounces dry miniature shell pasta
• one small sweet red bell pepper

Note: if you feel this dish to be too pungent with the horseradish and garlic, you can sweeten it by reducing the horseradish to one-half teaspoon and the garlic to no more than four cloves, and then adding one-quarter teaspoon of salt.

A word of caution, however: if you opt to use a salad dressing or sandwich spread as opposed to mayonnaise, it may well throw off the balance of flavors.

• Roast the pepper, then skin it. Remove the seeds and veins, then slice into one-quarter inch wide strips. Slice those strips into one inch long sections. Set aside on a small plate.
• Mince the onion and the garlic separately: you risk turning the garlic into fragrant mush if you try to chop it with the onion, and you want the shock of discrete garlic bits when you chew the pasta.
• Mix the mayonnaise, the mustard powder, the horseradish, the onion and the garlic in a glass bowl and set aside while the pasta is cooking.
• Cook the pasta according to the directions on the package.
• Drain the pasta well, but do not rinse it, then place it into a serving bowl.
• Gently mix the pasta and the dressing together while the pasta is hot.
• Fold in the pepper slices and any liquid that drained from them while they sat.

Enjoy.